The Egg Said Nothing Read Online Free Page A

towards the door, I started my move, walking slowly, deliberately, determined to appear, even from the outside, like I had a place to be.

    Pausing in front of the door, I stood for thirty seconds or so. Through the glass, everything looked better. The place my body occupied suddenly felt cheap and transient, a temporary dwelling in a disposable world. I caught a faint reflection of my own dark brown eyes, and that was enough for me to push forward, to leave my confines and move on.

    “Hey,” a soft voice said from behind me. Rapid footsteps approached. I stopped and turned halfway. I was confused. The waitress stood there, bathed in her interesting smells, looking like she just stepped out of another world. The light from the diner glowed behind her.

    “I left the money on the table,” I said. My eyes fell on her shoulder—covered in the white cloth of her shirt—then moved up to her face.

    “You forgot your receipt.” She extended her hand with all of its perfectly sculpted fingers. I wanted to reach out and take the slip of paper, to graze her knuckles with the pads of my fingers, just to touch her skin.

    “I really don’t need it,” I said with a sigh. Her brow relaxed, as though she was bracing herself for something. Her arm was still outstretched. I looked at her, perplexed. I reached out and accepted the ticket, careful to not let my hand touch hers. “Thanks,” I said, finally.

    She smiled her half smile and turned away, moving back through the door into the restaurant. I watched her figure pass by the large window before continuing on my own way.

    I stopped off at the liquor store and bought two bottles of cheap red wine and carried the paper bag home quickly.

    Once there, I put the bag on the kitchen counter and wandered into the bedroom. The egg was sitting where I left it, looking comfortable and cozy. I ran my fingers over its top.

    In the kitchen, I took the two bottles out of the bag, opened the cabinet and pulled out a wine glass. I felt it in my hand. It was a gift from my mother. She has Alzheimer’s and isn’t aware of anything I do, so I take things out of her apartment to save them. She already threw away all of the family photo albums. My entire photographic past sits in a landfill, buried beneath diapers and coffee grounds. This glass was part of a set my grandmother treasured.

    I set the glass on the counter and pulled the wrapping off one of the wine bottles. A cork. I thought for sure there would be a screw top on such cheap shit. I went to the junk drawer and took out a hammer. Tilting the neck of the bottle against the counter’s edge, I gave it a tap, sending glass flying across the countertop.

    After pouring a drink, I swirled the liquid around to let the aroma escape. Then I threw back the wine like a shot and smashed the glass on the floor, celebrating my first drink like a Jewish wedding. I wiped the back of my hand on my pants and picked up the bottle. The living room seemed inviting, so I sat down on the couch and stared at the empty television, looking at the reflection of my apartment behind me in the blank screen.

    I took a pull of the wine, not caring to avoid the jagged glass. My eyelids drooped. My body was warm, and, for a moment, I didn’t feel alone.

~Chapter 5~

    In which the narrator has a real conversation with the waitress.

    Prior to the egg’s appearance, I did almost nothing. I would sneak out at night to loot fountains to pay for bills and sustenance. Other than that, I mostly slept a lot and stayed home. Late night television was a good friend of mine. I didn’t talk to anyone. My phone was almost exclusively ornamental, and my computer was only ever turned on to play a few halfhearted games of Minesweeper.
    As odd as it all seemed, my life was going somewhere. I felt a desire for human contact for the first time in as long as I could remember. And I couldn’t help but think that the sudden responsibility I felt for the egg, combined with all